Sorrows and Joys
by TheScarletOctopus
Summary: Sequel to "Trina, Interrupted." In 2018, the HAers haven't reached the stardom they dreamed of-even getting by is a challenge in a troubled world. But that just makes the moments of happiness all the sweeter.
1. Half a World Away: Tori and Andre

**A/N: It was suggested that I write a sequel to Trina, Interrupted, so here it is. Of course, as part of my practice of making things more complicated than they need to be, I also decided to turn it into a futurefic. As per usual, I'll decide whether or not to continue it based upon the level of reader interest. Please note that this story will contain strong language; reader discretion is advised.**

**Disclaimer: I own neither **_**Victorious**_** nor any of the songs, films, or works of literature mentioned herein. (How's **_**that **_**for an all-encompassing "cover your ass" disclaimer?)**

_July 4, 2018_

_Thessaloniki, Independent People's Republic of Northern Hellas_

_12:00 P.M. local time_

As he looked down the empty avenue, PFC André Harris thought of one of his favorite films, _High Noon_. The residents of this, the second largest city in the chaotic patchwork of feudal principalities that had once been Greece, were all cowering in their homes and shops, behind triple-locked doors and heavily barred windows, fearfully awaiting what was about to happen. He didn't blame them one bit. If it were up to him, right now he'd be at home with a beer in his hand and another arm around his gorgeous wife, watching baseball on TV. But instead here he was, an American soldier fighting on the soil of what was still technically a NATO member country. It was insane.

The mission of his unit, a mix of US and UK troops, was to fight their way through the city center and join up with the French and German armored units currently engaged in furious combat with the rebel forces of the warlord Manolis Papageorgiou in the open country to the north. Papageorgiou was a monster, known for burning resisting towns to the ground and having men's throats slit in front of their wives and children, and André would be glad when the world was rid of the guy once and for all. But still and all, he had no taste for urban combat. No soldier does. His comrades' ultra-high-tech weapons would be of limited value in this unfamiliar maze.

He kept perfectly still behind a bus shelter, crouched in an uncomfortable position, awaiting the signal. The remorseless Greek sun beat down from a cloudless sky, and the pavement reflected and focused the heat with the efficiency of a microwave oven. Sweat pooled on André's neck, under his armpits, on the backs of his knees; his lower back ached. Wearing thirty pounds of nano-fiber body armor wasn't helping matters, either. But none of it made a difference- he wouldn't move, not an inch, until he was instructed to do so. His devotion to discipline had won him the admiration of his commanding officers, and his name was being bandied about for officer candidate school.

It was funny, really – André Harris, who had never wanted this life, who had only joined the Army because he and Tori were completely out of other options and near starvation, proved to be a brilliant soldier with terrific prospects for the future.

Provided, that is, he didn't get himself killed today.

The sergeant waved his hand. At the same moment, a Molotov cocktail thrown from the other end of the street arced gracefully through the air and smashed in a spurt of flame a few feet from André.

As if a switch had been thrown, the quiet avenue erupted into chaos. The deafening rat-a-tat-tat of automatic weapons fire, windows smashing, cars exploding, heavily accented cries of "Go home Yankee! Go home limey!" mixed with tactical commands in Greek that André couldn't understand.

"Harris! Machine gun nest, two hundred meters north! Take them out!" his commanding officer yelled, before a bullet through the throat cut him off.

Instantly André charged forward, bent over, head down, straightening up to fire a quick burst every three seconds. The cloud of dust rising around him obscured his vision.

_Please, God, let me make it back to her in one piece,_ he silently prayed.

/

_Fort Hood, Texas_

_Six hours later_

"Kiss me, out of the bearded barley, nightly, beside the green green grass…"

Tori groaned and let her head sink onto her arms, which were folded atop her shopping cart. _"Kiss Me"? __**Again?**__ That's the third time in the last __**hour!**__ Buy some different music, you tightwads! _

She tried to focus her mind and shut out the music being piped over the grocery store PA system; no luck. With a sigh, she checked her watch. Exactly twenty-three minutes and forty-eight seconds since she had joined the checkout line, and there were still two people in front of her. _Note to self: never shop on the morning of the Fourth of July again. __**EVER.**_

The haggard faces of celebrities without makeup stared at her from the rack of gossip magazines. "Donald Trump Weds for Ninth Time!" "Miley Cyrus' Secret Love Child Revealed!" "Justin Bieber to Play Julius Caesar in New Biopic?"

_Bah._ She turned to the newspaper rack. "Greek civil war enters ninth month; Senate Majority Leader questions President's decision to support NATO intervention." "Can America Afford Another Foreign War?"

_I don't give a rat's ass about foreign politics, or budget deficits, or __**any **__of that,_ she thought. _I just want André back home. So, so much._

She had wanted to cancel the barbecue when the news came that he would be deployed, but André wouldn't hear of it. They'd been planning for a month, and they'd already invited everyone they knew; Tori's parents were flying in, Trina and Adam, Beck and Jade, and André's grandmother too; why let all that go to waste, André had said, just because he himself couldn't be there? And she'd smiled, and nodded, all the while thinking, _You just don't __**get **__it, do you? Without you there, it won't mean a damn thing._

Now they would be apart for God knows how long, and every waking moment she'd be afraid for his safety. Her PTSD would flare up again, she just knew it. Ever since she'd found her sister bleeding to death on the bathroom floor eight years before, she'd had a deathly fear of losing her loved ones whenever they were apart from her; thousands of dollars' worth of psychotherapy might have helped her control the disorder, but it would never be gone entirely – even though she pretended to André that it was. No sense worrying him, after all. If_ he_ were spending his time stressing over _her_ while he was on active duty, he might take his eye off the ball – and then – a bullet – dying – dying all alone – and her not knowing, until the soldiers in dress uniform showed up at her door, saluted, gave her the telegram…

_No. No, no, no. Think about something else. __**Anything **__else._ She flicked on her PearPad and checked over her grocery list one last time. Steaks, check. Potato chips, check. Budweiser; charcoal; lighter fluid…

_Lighter fluid. I forgot the damn lighter fluid._

"Shit," she said loudly, and the woman in front of her, who had a small child in her arms, whirled to give her a look of daggers. "Sorry," Tori mumbled, her cheeks flushing.

_Well, better go get it, then spend another hour or two in line. God, I hate my life. _ She pulled out of the line and shoved her cart forward with determination into the throngs crowding the aisles, still thinking of her husband half a world away.

Her PearPhone jangled at her hip. It took her a few seconds to find an empty spot (next to the Brussels sprouts, naturally) where she could park the cart and answer it. The caller ID read _West-Oliver Household._

"Hey, Beck and/or Jade," she answered, managing a cheery tone. "What's up? Your flight hasn't been delayed, has it?"

There was silence on the other end. "…Um, hello?" said Tori, a knot of worry forming in the back of her mind. "Is anybody there?"

Beck spoke, slowly, heavily. It sounded as if he had been drinking. "Yeah, um, Tori. We're, um, not coming. Sorry to let you know this late."

"What? What happened?"

"It's Jade. She…"

"She what?" The knot grew bigger.

"She walked out, Tori. And she took the kids with her."


	2. Message in a Bottle: Beck and Jade

**A/N: Well, two positive reviews and one tepid one. I guess that's enough to warrant one more chapter, at least. Time once again to take beloved characters from a lighthearted television show and do horrible, horrible things to them.**

**Disclaimer: As ever, don't own.**

_Greenwich Village, New York City_

_11:00 A.M. EDT_

"No, Tori. Don't worry about it. It'll be fine – just another argument. She'll come back when she's ready. I'll be okay till then, anyway." He hung up.

It was a total lie. He missed Jade, and he missed his kids, with an intensity that felt like a knife through his heart – and he had no idea whether they would ever return to him.

They had been so overjoyed when Jade first got pregnant – no matter that they were still in their senior year of high school, no matter that neither her parents nor his approved of the relationship, no matter that they had no idea where their next meal would come from. Twins, it turned out. Identical – both boys. And two years later, a girl. Every father secretly has a favorite, he was convinced; and Sarah was his, the adorable apple of his eye. Still Jade refused to get married – old-fashioned, she said, and too constricting – but they were a family.

Then, when things looked their bleakest financially, he landed a starring role in a romantic comedy. They moved to New York; his face was on billboards, atop taxis. It had been worth celebrating.

"_Give me the keys, Beck."_

"_You think I can't drive? You think a couple of beers are enough to make me __**drunk?**__ I thought you knew me better than that."_

"_Stop arguing and just give me the damn keys! You can barely stay on your feet!"_

"_I don't take orders from you."_

And ten minutes later, the wrong lane, swerving away from the oncoming car, hitting the streetlight…

Jade had suffered only minor injuries; but if it hadn't been for the air bags, Beck would have been killed. Perhaps, he thought bitterly, that would have been best for everyone. His handsome face, his well-proportioned body – gone. Now he was nothing but asymmetry: the right side fine, the left side a twisted, tangled mess. He could walk, with difficulty, but he had no desire to go out on the streets – not anymore. New York City was a sea of faces, millions and millions of faces, and even the most hurried of them would halt a moment to stare at him – sometimes with pity, sometimes with disgust, sometimes with a sort of horrified fascination. Now he was practically an agoraphobe, rarely setting foot outside the apartment door.

Fortunately, this wasn't a problem as far as work. He wrote a weekly column on car repair for the _Post_; ironic, since he no longer drove – no longer _could_ drive. Jade was a freelance theater and film critic, though that was merely a placeholder while she tried desperately to get her plays produced. They were actually doing reasonably well now in terms of money – or would have been, had their rent not been murderously high.

And if he hadn't been spending quite so much on liquor…

He stared down the neck of the empty vodka bottle. Maybe if he looked hard enough, he would find a message, thrown into the ocean by someone on a distant shore – a message that would tell him how to be a good boyfriend, how to be a good father, how to overcome the physical and emotional wreck of a man that he had become.

Nothing.

He threw it against the wall and watched the shards fly.

/

_Upstate New York_

Jade sat on the edge of the motel pool and dangled her bare feet in the water, watching Tyler, Michael and Sarah splashing about with their orange water wings. Clouds were gathering to the north, marring the otherwise beautiful sky. It would surely rain soon.

She couldn't bear to shut her eyes, even to blink. For as soon as they were closed, the scene of a few hours before flashed before her, as clear as day. It had begun so trivially.

"_You paid the electric bill, didn't you?"_

"_What? Yeah, sure, I guess."_

"_Oh, for Christ's – Beck, it's on your __**nightstand.**__ How could you miss it there?"_

"_I put the Jim Beam on top of it, obviously."_

"_That's not funny."_

"_Cut me some slack, will you? My column-"_

"_Was done two days ago. Stop making excuses."_

"_Fuck you!"_

"…_I beg your pardon?"_

"_I'm __**trying**__ to have a drink in peace."_

"_At six o'clock in the morning? Even for you, that's pretty sad."_

"_Just __**fuck the hell off!**__"_

And then…she still couldn't believe it. He had _never _raised his fist at her before. And the look in his eyes…

She could stand a lot; her hair-trigger temper had cooled considerably since her high school days. But that – that was too much.

So she had packed up and left. And now here she was, at a sketchy roadside motel at God knows where in the countryside, with nothing but the clothes on her back. A single mother.

_No. Not yet. There's still a chance. If he gets sober._ It wouldn't be easy, she knew. Drink had been his constant companion ever since his accident. But she also knew that he still loved her, and she him, despite everything; and the old Beck was still inside him somewhere, the charming man who had made her feel at ease, who had convinced her that not everyone in the world was out to get her.

Keeping one eye on her frolicking children, she dialed the apartment.

One ring. _Pick it up, Beck._

Two rings. _Come on, come on._

Three. _I know you're there, dammit! You never __**leave!**_

Four; five; six.

She switched the PearPhone off and began to weep.

_It isn't __**fair,**_ she thought. They had always been such a strong couple, so much in love – ever since high school. Of course they had had their arguments and even their splits, but they always came back together, stronger than ever. Now he had given up on life and she was utterly desperate, while their friends enjoyed happy marriages. Vega and André. Cat and Robbie. Hell, _Trina_ – the narcissist, the one who couldn't get a boyfriend in high school if her life depended on it, and who even tried to_ kill_ herself at one point – was probably the most content of them all.

Still, Jade couldn't help but wonder why Trina fell silent whenever she was asked about her son.


	3. Cards on the Table: Trina and Adam

**A/N: You've all been patient, and here it is: the first Trina-centric chapter. Enjoy. (Also, a quick question: if I were to start an account over at FictionPress, would anyone be interested in reading my non-fan fiction?)**

_Los Angeles, CA_

_One day earlier_

The alarm clock buzzed at 6:00 and the birds were singing loudly outside the bedroom window, but Trina and Adam didn't need to be awakened; they hadn't slept all night. For hours they had stared at the ceiling, breaking the silence occasionally to talk in hushed tones so that Sammy wouldn't hear. Worry ate away at their stomachs and forced their eyes open whenever they began to doze off.

Finally, reluctantly, they arose, their stiff joints crackling. Trina poured herself a cup of coffee, then left it undrunk on the kitchen counter. Adam pulled on his overalls and took the keys to the pickup off the wall hook.

"Don't you want something to eat first?"

"Not hungry," he said quietly.

"Me neither."

He turned to her, and the concern was evident even in his bleary and baggy eyes. "Are you _sure_ you don't want me to-"

"How many times do we have to go over this? You _have_ to go to work. If you miss any more days, your boss is going to jump down your throat." Her tone softened. "And I can do this by myself. I swear I can."

He smiled gently. "I don't doubt that for a second. I just…I want to be there."

She went to him and hugged him tightly. "I know. I promise, we won't make any binding decisions today. If something has to be done, we'll do it as a family."

He leaned down to kiss her forehead, then gently extricated himself from her embrace. "I have to run. What time does the sitter get here?"

"Eight-thirty. The conference is at nine. I should have plenty of time. The only question is…what do I wear?"

He blinked. "Are you really worried about that?"

"Well, what do you expect? I've never done this before." For all her anxiety, she still couldn't stifle a chuckle at his bemused expression. "Honey, I know I've changed a lot since we first met, but _some_ things stay the same. I was born a fashionista, and I'll die a fashionista."

"I have no doubt of that." A last quick kiss, and he turned to call up the stairs: "Bye, Sammy!"

The dim sound floated down of feet pounding the wall. "Go away!" The small voice screamed. "I hate you, Daddy!"

"Oh, God. I'll go check on him." Trina hurried off without even glancing back. He could just catch snatches of her voice from their son's bedroom: "Sammy, honey, you need to stop doing that. Remember, you promised Mommy you wouldn't."

The banging grew louder, and then Trina's tearful voice: "Sammy, _please_…"

Adam stood in the open doorway, keys dangling from his fingers, unable to bring himself to leave the house. _It's just a phase. It has to be. We're getting all worked up over nothing._

_ Aren't we?_

/

_Clickety-clack, clickety-clack,_ went Trina's stiletto heels on the immaculately polished school floor. She adjusted her blazer a little to the left, to the right; smoothed out a wrinkle in her skirt, then another, then another – anything to delay the inevitable.

Los Angeles these days, like every major American city, suffered from periodic electricity shortages and rolling blackouts, so, as a power-saving measure, the overhead lights were dimmed and the air conditioning at its lowest possible level, making Trina perspire uncomfortably. Around her on the walls plasma panels dully flickered, displaying constantly changing high-definition reproductions of students' drawings and finger paintings. _I miss the days when they just pinned sheets of paper onto corkboard,_ she thought.

Without even realizing it, she began to flick her eyes from side to side as she walked, hoping that something, anything, of Sammy's would materialize on the screens. There was "Caitlin's Gorilla" and "Tobias in a Rocketship" and "Madison and Her Family Have a Picnic"_…but what about my child, dammit? _

Then she saw it – almost at ceiling level, virtually impossible to spot if you weren't looking for it (which was obviously the school's intention). If nothing else, it was incredibly well-drawn; Sammy had inherited his father's gift with his hands. But the image…she and Adam were lying in the grass of their front yard with splashes of red all around them and tombstones at their heads. Flames were spurting from the doors and windows of their home.

And Sammy, in the center of it all, was dancing.

_Oh, sweet merciful God._

She had reached his classroom – No. 103, Miss Cardinale. Tentatively, she knocked and was greeted by a brisk and officious "Enter, please."

The woman was young – no more than forty – but her severely cut khaki clothes, prematurely whitening hair and narrow face made her look much older. She took Trina's hand in a crushingly strong handshake and studied her with keen hazel eyes.

"Mrs. Winter, I presume."

_Tell a joke. Break the ice. Get on her good side._ "Shouldn't that be Dr. Livingston?" She forced a broad grin and a chuckle, but the teacher responded, with what Trina could have sworn was a sneer, "I don't think humor is the order of the day, do you? Please have a seat."

Trina drew a chair up to the desk with shaking hands. Miss Cardinale pursued her lips and ran a finger down her PearPad – drab brown, like her outfit – studying something; Sammy's file, Trina guessed. So much time passed before she next spoke that Trina honestly wondered whether she had forgotten that there was someone else in the room.

"Mrs. Winter, I'm going to lay all the cards on the table, so to speak. Your son is violent and uncontrollable. He shows marked antisocial tendencies, and he has no respect for authority whatsoever."

"But…how can you possibly know that for sure? He's _four years old_, for God's sake. _ All_ kids his age are unruly sometimes."

"Did you see his picture?"

"I…" Trina's head sank. "Yes." _Please, God, take me away from here before I have to hear any more._

"That was not an isolated incident." She looked back to her PearPad. "Friday, 22 June: subject struck fellow student across face when she refused to share her toys. Monday, 25 June: subject…"

"Don't you dare call my son a subject!" Trina cried. "His name is Samuel!"

She might as well have been speaking Swahili for all that Miss Cardinale acknowledged her. "Subject informed P.E. teacher that if he had to do more jumping jacks he would 'jab a pencil in her eye'. Tuesday, 26 June: subject stole lunches of three fellow students, then when questioned about it, called assistant principal a…well, let's just say a vulgar epithet that should not be in any four-year-old's vocabulary," and she gave Trina a meaningful look, "Or any adult's, either, if I do say so myself. Wednesday, 27 June: subject smashed…"

Trina was consumed by a feeling she had not had since six long years ago, when she was told Adam had left the hospital: _This is not real. I deny this. I do not accept that this is happening. _It took all her strength not to leave her chair and curl up into a fetal position.

"Mrs. Winter, are you listening to me? Your son is _not_ prepared to enter kindergarten in the fall. Not only is he far too immature, but if this behavior continues – and I see no indications that it won't – he may pose a genuine risk of injury to others. I'm removing him from the summer program, and I _strongly_ recommend that you have him evaluated by a competent child psychologist. Is he behaving in this fashion at home?"

Trina stared at the floor.

"I see." The teacher looked at her as if she were a dead cockroach. "Well, as I say, drastic action must be taken. Might I suggest a parenting class for you and your husband? It could go far to correcting any…shortcomings…on your end."

Trina's head shot up; her eyes blazed with fury. "How dare you! How _dare_ you accuse us of being unfit parents!"

"I speak from experience, Mrs. Winter. Poor parenting often leads to children 'acting out'. And consider the alternative: if none of this is your fault, then, well, it would seem you've given birth to a little sociopath."

_Don't hit her. Don't hit her._

"Is there any history of mental illness in your or your husband's family?"

"Yes," Trina muttered through tightly clenched teeth.

"Hmph. Well, there you are. All in the genes, then."

_You __**can't **__hit her. If you do you'll go to jail, and Sammy needs you._

"With all due respect, Miss Cardinale," she said in tones of ice, "I think we're done here."

"You'll take my recommendations under advisement, I trust?"

But Trina was already out the door.

"Madison and Her Family Have a Picnic" was back on display in the hallway. Three smiling stick figures in bright yellow and blue crayon: mommy; daddy; little girl between them, holding their hands.

Trina stared at it for a moment.

Then she sank down, back against the wall, and began to sob.


End file.
